


A Thousand Years

by Divergence



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Male Slash, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1482796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Divergence/pseuds/Divergence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't know Sherlock likes to dance. This is what happens when he finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Years

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Reichenbach, in a universe where Mary doesn't exist.
> 
> The song Sherlock and John dance to is A Thousand Years by Christina Perri.  
> It can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbLg6-MvOFo
> 
> Not sure if this earned an "M" rating, but I wanted to err on the side of caution.
> 
> These characters belong to Gatiss/Moffat/BBC. I'm just borrowing them.

John never thought he’d see the day when Sherlock willingly attended a wedding. Yet here he was, silent, but here. _At least he hasn’t started complaining yet_ , John thought. Greg wandered over to where John and Sherlock were leaning against the wall. “Having a good time?” he asked, waving his pint.

“Beautiful wedding, mate,” John said smiling. Sherlock glanced at Greg but said nothing, well on his way to a sulk. Molly chose that moment to walk over, linking her arm through Greg’s.

“I’m glad you came, Sherlock,” Molly beamed up at him.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied.

“A dance for the bride?” Molly held out her hand. A look of surprise crossed Sherlock’s face.

“Go on, mate,” Greg encouraged. “Better than holding up the wall, right?”

Sherlock frowned, then stepped towards Molly. He offered his hand and walked with her to the middle of the dance floor. Once there, Molly laughed and curtsied. Sherlock’s mouth quirked as he responded with a slight bow.

John watched from his spot next to Greg as Sherlock expertly guided Molly around the dance floor. _He was born to dance_ , John thought. _I never would have guessed that_. It seemed that nobody else had either, as person after person stopped dancing to watch the bride and Sherlock spin and glide. And was that possible? Sherlock was smiling.

The dance ended, and as the crowd clapped and cat-called, Sherlock leaned down to whisper something in Molly’s ear. She grinned up at him and squeezed his arm before moving off to talk to her bridesmaid.

“Full of surprises, that one,” Greg said, taking a sip of his beer. John started, he’d forgotten Greg was there.

“He seems to like to dance,” John replied vaguely.

“I didn’t think he’d come,” Greg said. “Not his thing, is it? Glad he did, though.”

John nodded, and glanced around the room looking for Sherlock. He did that a lot now, he noticed. Looked for Sherlock. He felt a need to know where he was, to see him breathing, to see him alive. Greg took another sip and said, “I think he went outside. Courtyard.”

John looked at Greg, “That obvious?”

Greg chuckled, then stilled. He met John’s eyes for a second then looked out over the dance floor. Carefully he said, “You always watched him, you know. Even… before.” John said nothing, and instead chose to look down at the floor. “There was always something between the two of you. Now that he’s back…” Greg trailed off.

John shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s none of my business, mate,” Greg said quickly. “Forget I said anything.”

“No, it’s not that,” John said, looking across the room at nothing in particular. “It’s just… he’s not interested in that, is he? Married to his work and all that.”

Greg laughed. “I’ve heard him say that. Not really true, though, is it?”

John looked at Greg. “What?”

“He stopped being ‘married to his work’ the minute you moved in. He wanted you at crime scenes, you two went out to eat, spent evenings together… Christ, he even came to the pub a couple of times,” Greg shook his head at the memory of Sherlock at the pub. “He didn’t bother for anyone else. Just you.”

John considered this. Greg took a gulp of his drink to fortify himself and added, “He’s different since he came back. He watches you, you know. When you aren’t looking. Not my business, like I said, but if you’re interested… well, don’t be so sure he’s not,” Greg clapped John on the shoulder and started to walk away. “Going to find my wife,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of the night, OK?”

John flashed a tense smile and waved. He walked to the bar and ordered a shot of whiskey. Dutch courage? Maybe. Greg’s words ran through his brain as he downed the shot and made his way to the French doors that opened onto the courtyard. Once he got there, he saw Sherlock looking out over the garden, elbows on the concrete wall next to his folded suit jacket, smoking a cigarette.

John made his way over and mimicked Sherlock’s stance, loosely clasping his hands. “Cigarettes, Sherlock?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock drawled, inhaling and lifting his chin to let out a long stream of smoke. _Smoking is not good, but god he looks good doing it,_ John thought. John allowed his eyes to roam over Sherlock’s body in open appreciation. His dark unruly hair, silver-blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, long neck dipping into the ‘v’ of bare skin at his throat... and that damn purple shirt. John swallowed. Top two buttons undone as usual; Sherlock previously had his shirt done all the way up in deference to the ceremony. Sleeves rolled up, exposing his lightly muscled forearms. Long, strong legs encased in black trousers, polished dress shoes. Sherlock was as close to casual as he got, not counting his dressing gown ( _and naked in a sheet,_ John’s mind helpfully supplied).

John cleared his throat and looked out over the garden. “They’re glad you came,” he said.

Sherlock took another long inhale of his cigarette in response. They both watched the smoke curl out over the garden. The silence felt comfortable, neither man felt a need to talk. John, however, _wanted_ to talk, and although he felt the words as pressure in his throat he didn’t know how to push them past his lips.

The music shifted to a song John recognized. He heard the words spill between them before he had time to censor himself, “Dance with me?”

Sherlock turned and ground the cigarette under his foot in one smooth motion. His gaze was intense as it flicked over John, the questions “what” and “why” apparent in the set of Sherlock’s brow. “It’s a waltz,” John said helpfully.

“It’s a pop song,” Sherlock replied with derision.

“Doesn’t matter,” John shrugged, stepping away from the wall. “Indulge me.”

Sherlock lifted one eyebrow, then also stepped away from the wall, gracefully extending both arms out then bending his right elbow. John stepped into Sherlock, placed his right hand in Sherlock’s left, and lifted his left hand to rest at Sherlock’s shoulder. “Done this before?” Sherlock asked as he cupped his right hand around John’s shoulder blade. “A little,” John replied. “Nothing fancy, mind you.”

Sherlock flashed a tight smile, drew his spine erect, firmed his hold, then looked over John’s shoulder, waiting for the correct beat.  John had never followed before, but somehow being held by Sherlock like this felt right. Sherlock was strong, solid, perfect. A slight squeeze of Sherlock’s left hand signalled the start, and Sherlock stepped gracefully forward with his left foot. John mirrored his movements, remembering the one dance class he took when he wanted to impress a girlfriend. The music wafted through the air and Sherlock and John moved smoothly through the steps: _one-two-three_ , _one-two-three_. John surrendered to the moment, to the movement, to being led. Sherlock really was an excellent dancer, he moved across the floor like he was skating over ice. John was not as good, but found he was dancing quite well with Sherlock’s confident lead.

“I didn’t know you could dance like this,” John said.

“I like to dance,” Sherlock replied, his shrug transmitting down his arms so that John’s arms also rose and fell. “I hoped it would come up in a case. It hasn’t yet.”

“You don’t have to wait for a case,” John pointed out. “You could just… dance.”

Sherlock hummed, non-committal, neither an agreement nor a denial.

Sherlock guided them across and around the courtyard, the gentle music, the evening air, the heat of their bodies, and their swaying steps created an almost hypnotic effect. John had never felt this way dancing with anyone else. He felt enveloped; safe and protected. John found himself humming along with the music.

“Really, John,” Sherlock reproached mildly, “you know this song? Truly, I despair for the state of modern music.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John replied. “It’s lovely. I hear it on the radio at the surgery all the time.”

As they continued to move around the courtyard, John found himself singing along under his breath:

_I have died every day waiting for you,_

_Darling, don’t be afraid I have loved you for a thousand years,_

_I’ll love you for a thousand more._

_And all along I believed I would find you,_

_Time has brought your heart to me,_

_I have loved you for a thousand years,_

_I’ll love you for a thousand more…_

“It’s true, you know,” John said suddenly.

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed his question.

“I have loved you. I do. Love you,” John said quickly, before he lost his nerve.

Sherlock’s shoulders tensed, and John found his hand gripped more tightly than before. Still, Sherlock didn’t lose the rhythm of the dance, and after a few steps his muscles relaxed. _Such a professional_ , John thought.

“You don’t have to –“John stumbled over his words, “Nothing has to change. But. I didn’t say anything, and then you were gone. Now you’re back and I know you’re different. I’m different too. But the important thing is that it’s you and me. Or me and you. And I want it to stay that way. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?” John looked up at Sherlock for the first time since they started dancing. Sherlock’s eyes bored into John’s, searching.

Sherlock stopped dancing, dropped the dance hold and moved his hands to rest on John’s hips. “There’s no going back,” he said tightly. “If we do this, I can’t go back. I won’t.”

“There was never any going back, really,” John said calmly. “It just took me this long to realize it.”

“You’re not gay,” Sherlock said in a low voice, edging closer to John.

“Not gay,” John agreed. “It’s not about that, though. It’s what I said. You and me. That’s it. That’s all I need to know. And besides,” he added carefully, “you’re married to your work.”

“You’re part of my work,” Sherlock murmured, raising his right hand to cradle the back of John’s head. Slowly he leaned in, giving John a chance to back away. When John didn’t, their lips met gently, chastely. Seconds passed, then Sherlock swiped his tongue over John’s lips; a question. John opened his mouth in response, Sherlock’s tongue caressed his, and this was what John had secretly wanted for years. It didn’t matter that it was a man, because it was Sherlock. All that mattered was that Sherlock was kissing him, holding John’s head in place as he expertly moved his lips and tongue.

_God, he’s good at this too_ , John thought, giggling.          

Sherlock pulled his head back, frowning, “Problem?”

“God, no,” John breathed. “Just, come here.” This time the kiss was messy, intense, a clash of lips, teeth, and tongues. Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth and wrapped his arms around him, pulling their bodies tight together as he bit John’s lower lip. John groaned, grabbed the back of Sherlock’s shirt with both hands and just held on because _this_ , this was like nothing he had ever experienced. He _wanted_ , god he wanted, but they were standing in the middle of a courtyard, at a wedding –

John pulled away, gasping. “We can’t –“

“Bit not good?” Sherlock asked, his red and swollen lips quirked in a half-smile.

“Oh, it’s good,” John disagreed, trying to calm his breath. “It’s very good. We just need more privacy, I think, for the things I’m going to do to you.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed, then darkened. He leaned down so his lips hovered next to John’s ear, “I’m going to hold you to that, John Watson,” he purred. John shuddered. “Your voice should be illegal,” he managed to say before having to clear his throat.

Sherlock smiled, a frankly predatory smile, John thought, before pulling John in towards him again. This time Sherlock bent to John’s neck, biting down then softening the sting with a swirl of his tongue. “Christ,” John swore. “We have to leave. Now.”

Sherlock straightened up and tugged his shirtsleeves down. “I’ll just get my jacket,” he said calmly. “Then we can be on our way.” He walked over to the wall and slipped into his jacket. He looked completely put together, as usual, while John felt wrecked. _Amazing_ , John thought.

Sherlock walked back and held out his hand. “Home?”

John placed his hand firmly in Sherlock’s. “Home.”

 

 

FIN

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading!
> 
> I'm working on a multi-chapter fanfic that got quite angsty, so I wrote this as a sweet, fluffy break. I listened to the song and wanted to see Sherlock and John dance to it.


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